Old-Fashioned Villains
by BloodyFlickingAndSwishing
Summary: Sherlock is intrigued by the mysterious boy who has moved in upstairs. Harry is just trying to take a break from the Wizarding World. But Moriarty is bored, and Death Eaters are out for revenge. Join Sherlock, John and Harry as two worlds collide. Set Season 2 of Sherlock and Post-Hogwarts of Harry Potter. No pairings. Mentions of child abuse.
1. The New Neighbour

**Note: I published this story a while ago, but took it down. After a few months of procrastination, I've decided to just post it as it is. I know there a few plot holes and incorrect details and such. It's just kind of a silly story that got me writing again.**

Chapter 1: The New Neighbour

Harry stared up at the building. It was old, and crumbling in places, but it was still in a relatively good condition. It was four storeys tall, the first belonging a small friendly sandwich shop. On a heavy black door boasted the words 221b. Harry stared down at the slip of paper he held in his hand. This was it.

Harry stepped up and knocked, not bothering to use the slightly askew brass door knocker. The door opened to reveal a little old lady with a wrinkled face and a kind smile.

"You must be Mrs Hudson, I'm Harry Potter," Harry said. The woman's smile grew.

"Yes, of course you are! Won't you come in?'

Harry stepped into the dark entry hall, dragging his heavy trunk behind him. The faint melody of a violin greeted his ears.

"Now, you'll be renting the third floor. You arrived just in time, too. The previous owner just left this morning. Let's have a look, shall we?"

Harry obediently followed Mrs Hudson upstairs, leaving his trunk in the hall. As they ascended, the violin became steadily louder, until Harry found its source behind a closed door to the second storey flat.

"That's Mr Holmes playing. He's in the flat below you. Lovely playing, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry agreed. He'd never really had the chance to listen to violin. It sounded sort of happy and sad at the same time.

Mrs Hudson lead him further up the stairs and opened a door to reveal a small, dusty living area. The place showed all the signs of recent use – dust hanging in the air, shadows left on the ground and walls where furniture had once been.

The flat was both larger and smaller than Harry had expected. In contained just a kitchen, living area, bathroom, bedroom and laundry. The place was in good condition, as far as Harry's untrained eye could see. He spent all but five minutes looking around before turning to Mrs Hudson.

"I'll take it."

XX

Harry lugged his trunk painstakingly up the stairs, ascending each step with a resounding thump. Harry considered getting out his wand and putting a feather-light charm on the damn thing, but thought better. If he was going to spend a year in Muggle London, he might as well do it properly.

He got to the second floor and took a moment to inspect the rapidly forming blisters on his hands. He wondered what the Wizarding World would say if they could see him now.

Harry suddenly noticed that the violin had stopped playing, and became aware of the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

Harry turned around to find the door to the second storey flat open. A man stood in the door frame, his figure cast in shadow. He was tall, with curly hair and piercing blue eyes that reminded Harry oddly of Dumbledore.

He wore a heavy black trench coat and a blue scarf, making Harry feel under-dressed in his black jeans and top. The man stared at Harry, and Harry stood awkwardly rooted to the spot. Harry was beginning to wonder whether or not he should introduce himself when the man suddenly moved towards him. Harry experienced a split second of panic, but the man simply brushed past him and hurried down the stairs. Harry stared after him in confusion before resuming his game of tug-a-war with gravity.

XX

John braced himself before entering the flat. It was Thursday, and Sherlock had yet to find an interesting case, so chances were he'd been going half mad of boredom for the last ten hours.

John stepped into the flat and was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock calmly typing away at his laptop (rather than, say, shooting holes through the wall and shouting profanities at the local pigeons that often frequented outside the window).

"Ah, found a case then, have we?" John asked, shrugging off his jacket.

"No," Sherlock replied promptly. "Not a single client. I swear the entire city's gone all goody two-shoes on me."

"Maybe they've finally realised that nothing gets past the famous Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock scoffed, but didn't reply. "So, if you haven't got a case, what are you doing?" John said, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. He was on someone's Face Book page.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, slamming the laptop closed and standing up. He turned away from John and faced the door. "What am I doing, you say? Ha! Something much better than a case, I'll tell you that," Sherlock rubbed his hands together, a familiar glint in his eye.

"Yes, and what would that be?" John asked.

Sherlock whirled around to face him. "Spying on the new neighbours of course!"

"New neigh-, we've got new neighbours?"

"No, just the one, but nevertheless, he'll have to do."

"Sherlock," John began.

"Strapping young lad, he is. Barely twenty, I'd say."

"Sherlock!"

"There's something about him, John, something _interesting_. I can tell he's better than a client whose lost her smelly cat, any day."

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, putting an abrupt end to Sherlock's rant. "You can't go spying on the neighbours!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Because his life is none of your business! Do you remember that young newly-wed couple that moved in up there a few months ago? Do you remember how you were personally responsible for them getting a divorce not one month after they were married?"

"I wasn't responsible for their divorce," Sherlock scoffed. "He was gay! It was blindingly obvious, I'm surprised she had to hear it from someone else to be perfectly honest."

"It was none of your business, Sherlock. As much as you loath to believe, people don't actually like it when you pop into their lives and tell them everything that's wrong with it,"

"Yes, _alright_." Sherlock huffed. "But this is different,"

"Different," John repeated. "How is this different?"

"It's different because-" Sherlock scrunched up his face comically. "Argh, I don't know, okay?! But it's different. There's something about him, John. _He's_ different, and I want to find out why."

XX

Harry glanced proudly around at his new apartment. It hadn't taken him long to find some furniture, the place was finally starting to feel homey and familiar. He had found a surprisingly comfortable couch for the living room, as well as a cheap telly and stand and a desk

. He'd also bought a few appliances for the kitchen – namely a microwave. Harry new how to cook, but that didn't mean he was any less likely to eat microwaved dinners for days on end. He was nineteen, remember.

All his keepsakes were in the bedroom. He had set up the trunk at the foot of his bed, just like at Hogwarts. Harry had decided to keep his flat looking as Muggle as possible, just in case an unexpected visitors came by unannounced. His stuff was strewn carelessly across the room, despite the fact that he'd only moved in that morning.

It bothered Harry, though, that the flat still looked so empty, so barren. Like it was missing something. Harry had to continually remind himself that this was what he wanted. A year living as a Muggle, to get away from the fame and nuisances of the Magical World. To find himself again, to work out who he was and what he wanted to do with his life now that the war was over.

The war had ended six months ago now. The weeks afterward had been nothing short of hell for Harry. What with the funerals, press and the public.

Harry had lost count of the number of funerals he had attended. He had made a promise to himself to attend as many as he could, even if he only new the deceased by face.

Hermione had insisted that he grant interviews to a few select reporters. The facts needed to be set straight. The public needed to know what had really happened. That's what Hermione had said, anyway. Harry had gone to the interviews, but Hermione had ended up doing most of the talking.

Harry hated all of it, especially the looks the reporters gave him when the interview was finished, like he was some sort of godlike hero with enough power to kill them on the spot with a flick of his wrist.

He was interrupted from his quickly darkening mood by a soft knocking on the door. Harry's thoughts immediately turned to the man in the trench coat, but the door opened to reveal little Mrs Hudson, laden with a tray of tea and biscuits.

Harry politely invited her in, and they sat together on Harry's new couch, sipping tea and dunking biscuits.

"You really are settling in quickly, aren't you?" Mrs Hudson said conversationally. "Already got the furniture in and everything."

"I've never been one to procrastinate," he smiled.

"Of course," Mrs Hudson said, patting his knee. "Now, Harry I probably should warn you about something. Do you remember that man who was playing the violin earlier?" Harry recalled the happy-but-sad music and nodded. "Well, that man's name is Sherlock Holmes and he's a little... eccentric."

"How so?"

"Well, he is a remarkably brilliant man, but he's a detective, so things can sometimes get a little haywire around here."

Harry repeated his earlier statement. "How so?"

"Oh, well, with him around, things like; police charging around at ungodly hours, him shouting and jumping about like a lunatic and buildings across the street spontaneously combusting, tend to happen almost on a daily basis. He really is one of a kind, and quite unpredictable. I just thought I should warn you. Him and that Mr Watson do get into some rather... unique situations."

"Mr Watson?"

"Oh, Sherlock and John are flatmates."

Harry nodded, and Mrs Hudson stood. "Well, Harry, I won't keep you any longer."

"Thank you for the tea and biscuits."

"You're welcome, Harry, I thought you might like a little house warming gift."

Harry smiled as Mrs Hudson left. It looked like his time here was going to be much more interesting than expected, if Mrs Hudson's words were anything to go by.


	2. Nice To Meet You

Chapter 2: Nice to Meet You

Harry left his flat the next morning in an optimistic mood. It didn't last long. He only just made it onto the first floor of the building when he ran into Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, looking tired and dishevelled, as though they had been out all night.

Sherlock cast a critical eye over Harry, knitting his eyebrows together. A moment of silence passed between the three. Sherlock's eyes flickered all over Harry's body. Harry stood, awkwardly startled under the scrutiny.

"Ah – I," Harry stuttered a greeting. He was saved from further embarrassment when Mr Watson stepped in.

"John Watson, nice to meet you," he said, extending a hand for Harry to shake. "This is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock extended his hand, and Harry shook it as well.

"Nice to meet you," Harry said.

"Was it a sibling or a parent?" Sherlock asked, startling Harry.

"Um, excuse me?" Harry said.

"Was it a sibling or parent?" he repeated. "The one who passed away not long ago."

" _Sherlock_ ," John berated, elbowing the taller man in the stomach. "You'll have to excuse him," he said to Harry. "He has a rather annoying habit of sticking his nose in other people's business."

Harry's mind was reeling. "No, it's fine," Harry said, studying Sherlock. The man stood perfectly still, his gaze intense. He stood with the sort of self-importance that Harry wished he possessed. "My parents died in a car crash when I was a baby."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"How did you know?"

Sherlock was about to answer, but John beat him to it. "He's a Consulting Detective. He can deduce things from people just by looking at them."

"Deduction?" Harry repeated slowly. He looked at Sherlock, and wondered how much he had deduced already. Harry then said something very stupid. "Okay, try me."

"You really don't want to-" John started.

"You turned twenty not long ago. You are extremely independent. You have little - if any, family or friends, or if so they live far away and you rarely speak with them. You're socially awkward. You find it difficult in social situations and prefer the company of yourself. You have seen horrors far beyond your time, and were abused for much of your childhood, which lead to your below-average height and loss of sight, as well as a few permanent scars. One has to wonder what you did that so horrible that justified using the strap," Harry's eyes widened. He'd never told anyone about the strap. Sherlock's expression suddenly darkened.

"You lost someone during your teenage years, someone you were close to. The heartbreak nearly killed you. You blame yourself. The scar on your forehead is recent, I can think of five ways it could have happened, all of which are equally unlikely. You rarely smile naturally. You pretend you are happy when you're not, most likely to avoid friends from worrying about you. You're also a liar, if the scratches on the back of your hand are anything to go by."

Harry subconsciously obscured the back of his hand. Sherlock talked so fast Harry could barely keep up, yet everything he had said was true. How did he know? He had deduced it as though it was written in plain sight. Harry glanced at Watson, who was giving him a pained and apologetic look. Harry tried to smile.

"Impressive," Harry said after a moment. "But I got this scar on my forehead when I was a baby."

Sherlock looked as though he had been slapped across the face. He raised his eyebrows in surprise before pulling them together. "There's always something!" he growled before disappearing up the stairs.

"I'm really sorry about that. He does like to show off," John said quickly before following after him. Harry stood there for a moment, once again bewildered by this man's behaviour. He decided it was best to be slightly wary of Sherlock Holmes from now on.

XX

Sherlock paced the room, rubbing his hands together excitedly. He replayed the conversation over in his head. "My God, the boy's a goldmine!" he exclaimed.

"Sherlock, I really don't -" John started.

"No, John. Didn't you see him? He's nineteen, yet he acts with the experience of a life-long soldier. Oh, John, you have no idea just how much of a mystery this boy is. You must thank Mrs Hudson for giving him the upstairs apartment. It's Christmas!"

"Sherlock listen to yourself, he's twenty!" said John.

"No, he's not," Sherlock said offhandedly. "I'll have to keep a close eye on him, study his habits. And what about that scar, like a lightnight bolt? There's no way it could have possibly happened when he was an infant. I should probably take another look online."

"What do you mean he's not twenty?"

"Ok, well _yes,_ I suppose physically he's twenty, but you just have to take one look at his eyes to see that he's older - much older, mentally." Sherlock paused, before beginning to pace across the room. "When he first came here, he had nothing but that old trunk. That's all he had. He's got to have had more, yet he chose to only bring what was most important to him. Why would he do that? He obviously didn't leave in any hurry, unless he planed to - He's running away from something." Sherlock stopped short in his pacing to listen as footsteps descended the staircase. They weren't Mrs Hudson's. "I'm going out."

"Where?" said John.

"On a case."

"A _case?_ "

"A personal case."

"A _personal_ case?"

"Alright fine, I'm going to follow Harry Potter!" he said, before slamming the door shut behind him.

XX

Harry stared at his glass of beer before taking a sip. He didn't really like it. He missed butterbeer. Around him, The Beehive was alight with activity. Friends were laughing over expensive dinners, fathers were watching the game on a small television in the corner, slightly drunken men were cat-calling pretty women outside.

Harry stared into the golden liquid, wondering not for the first time what he was doing here, in the middle of Muggle London, by himself.

A man took a seat beside him and ordered a beer before turning to Harry. "You look downright depressed, you know that?" he said. Harry could smell the beer on his breath and wondered how many he'd had. The man looked to be in his late twenties with long, unkempt sandy-blonde hair.

"I do now," Harry replied. The man laughed and shook Harry's hand.

"The name's Bennet. Richard Bennet. You can call me Richie."

"Harry Potter," he replied.

"You know what your problem is, Harry?" Richie said, his recently acquired drink sloshing as he lifted it to his lips. "You're too tightly wound."

"Too tightly wound?" said Harry, smirking.

"Yeah, and you know what you gotta do?" he poked Harry in the chest. "You gotta loosen up!" he said proudly, as though he had just revealed the secret to the universe. "Now, you come with me, and I'll introduce you some of my mates. They'll love you, I promise. They're just over there."

Richie pointed to five men playing a game of pool. As Harry looked, they all erupted into a fit of laughter at someone's expense.

"C'mon, you know you want to," Richie said, grabbing Harry's arm. Against his better judgement, Harry allowed himself to be dragged away.

"Oi!" Richie shouted at his friends. "Look at this handsome lad I found feeling sorry for himself over at the bar!"

Richie went round to each of the men, introducing them, one by one. The gang was made up of just six boys; Richie, Liam, Jayden, Matt and Josh. They each smiled and waved good naturedly as they were introduced, and Harry quietly said his 'hello's and 'nice to meet you's.

Harry then sat on a stool and watched them as they played. There was no betting involved in their game, and they cheated so often Harry wondered if it wasn't somehow part of the rules.

Matt had come over to Harry right away and introduced himself.

"It's nice to meet you, Harry," he said. "You know I think it'll be nice to have someone sane around here for a change."

A few of the boys turned on Matt, loudly proclaiming their objections. Harry had a rather one-sided conversation with him. He found it difficult to follow what he was on about. For the first time, Harry realised just how out-of-the-loop he had become with modern Muggle technology.


	3. A New Obsession

Chapter 3: Sherlock's Obsession

The boys had called it a night about an hour ago, and they had each gone their separate ways. Harry began his walk home, the pub was only a few blocks away from Baker Street.

Harry had had a great time with his new gang of friends, but now that he was alone, something was setting off his nerves. Harry glanced over his shoulder. There wasn't a soul in sight, though it was hard to tell through the darkness. The sun had set a few hours ago, leaving the street in eerie shadows that weren't illuminated by the street lights.

Paranoia set in quickly. Someone was watching him, he could feel it. He wasn't alone. Harry turned into an alleyway and ducked in the shadows. His heart began to beat rapidly in his chest.

He was rewarded not two minutes later when a man turned down the alleyway at a fast pace, obviously looking for someone. Harry caught the man by surprise and slammed the man into the opposite wall. Harry fumbled for his wand for a second before realising who it was. Harry quickly stuffed his wand away and stepped back.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Harry demanded.

Sherlock dusted himself off and fixed his scarf. "Just thought I'd go for a late-night stroll down a dark alleyway."

"Why are you following me?"

"I'm not following -"

"Don't be an idiot."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "How did you know I was following you?"

"I just knew. Why were you following me?"

Sherlock paused again, Harry could almost see his mind at work. "You know what it's like to be followed, how interesting," he mused. "Why?"

Harry growled in annoyance and walked off. Sherlock fell into step beside him. "What do you want? Why are you following me?"

"I must admit, you intrigue me, Harry. You are so young, yet so mature beyond your years. I want to know why."

"That's none of your business."

"I know, but I find it very hard to restrain myself from these things. It is a weakness in me, but I might be able to help you. I have seen horrors, too, you know."

Harry was quick to be annoyed by this man. He played idly with the idea of obliviating him, but no, Sherlock was too clever for that to ever work how he wanted.

Harry chose instead to walk home in silence, ignoring the older man completely. Harry suddenly realised that this might be a problem. If Sherlock continued to be 'intrigued' by Harry, he would more likely than not continue to follow him. What if Sherlock discovered his ultimate secret? Harry was not about to let that happen.

XX

The weeks eventually drifted by with no interesting developments. Harry didn't really like the idea of getting a job, he already had enough money to drown himself in ten times over. Instead he spent the days idly amusing himself, watching and observing the goings-on of everyday life as a Muggle.

He spent his nights at The Beehive, the lively down-town pub with his new gang of friends. He mostly sat and talked and laughed instead of playing. They were a good group of guys, and he was owed one to Richie for introducing him.

For the most part, Sherlock left him alone, but Harry could still feel the man's eyes on him. Watching him. Keeping tabs on him. It was enough to put Harry nerves on edge. He'd developed a strong disliking for the man.

Harry stepped into his apartment one sunny afternoon and instantly new that something was wrong. He glanced around. Everything seemed to be in order, that is, until he noticed the little things. Like the fact that he hadn't left a copy of today's paper on the bench before he'd left, or that most of the drawers and the cupboards in the flat that were once closed were now hanging open. Things had been moved, handled. Someone had been here.

Harry rushed from room to room and checked to see if anything was missing. As far as he could tell, everything was still there. Except for the book. His copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard which he kept on the bedside table. Gone.

His thoughts immediately turned to Sherlock. Who else would bother breaking into a flat just to steal a ratty old book? Anger bubbled in the pit of Harry's stomach as he stormed downstairs.

XX

Harry couldn't bring himself to knock, so instead he opened the door, with a long-suffering creak. The flat looked cramped, most likely due to the fact that every available surface was piled with books, papers, and other assortments and oddities.

John was nowhere to be seen, but Sherlock sat in an armchair by the window. In his hands he was reading the Tales of Beedle the Bard.

"Interesting little book you've got here, Harry," he said, without looking up from his book.

"You are an extremely frustrating person to have as a neighbour, you know that?"

"I'd invest in some better locks, if I were you."

Sherlock closed the book with a snap and held it out. Harry stared at it for a moment before realising he was offering it. Harry stormed over and snatched the book out of his hands. He turned to leave.

"The Tale of the Three Brothers. Very interesting. Never heard of it before."

Harry stopped short, wondering if he was implying what he thought he was implying. Harry turned around slowly. "It bares a personal relevance to me."

"I see," he replied, pressing his palms together. Sherlock stared out the window.

"Sherlock, you are playing a game I am not willing to play," Harry said. Something flickered behind Sherlock's eyes. "What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?"

Sherlock sucked in air through his nose and once again passed a critical eye over Harry. "Tell me everything about your past."

Harry stared hard at Sherlock. "No."

"Then I won't leave you alone."

Harry couldn't believe the audacity of this man. "So, you're saying this if I tell you everything about my past, you will leave me alone?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Take a seat."

Sherlock gestured to the armchair opposite him. Harry eyed it for a moment before taking a seat. Harry stared at Sherlock.

"'I must not tell lies'," Sherlock mused. "Why mustn't you tell lies, Harry?"

Harry's eyes flashed. "I answer your questions. You swear to keep your mouth shut."

"Of course."

Harry sighed and closed his eyes for a second. "I was given to me by a very prejudiced woman. I'm not a liar."

Sherlock's eye twitched. "How old were you?"

"Nineteen."

"I see," Sherlock stared at Harry in silence. "Your relatives. They were abusive?"

"Yes," Harry ground his teeth.

"To what extent?"

"You already know to what extent."

"Pretend I don't."

Harry swallowed. He didn't want this. "I was locked in a cupboard for days at a time. I went days, even weeks with little to no food. Beatings were... regular. I was taught to believe I was worthless."

"No one noticed?"

"No one cared."

"You lost someone close to you when you were fifteen. Who?"

Harry took a deep breath. How did he know? How the fuck did he know? "My Godfather."

"How did he die?"

Harry paused. "He was murdered," he said quietly.

"By who?"

"I don't know," Harry lied.

Silence filled the room for a moment.

"I'm missing something," Sherlock accused. "There's something that's staring me right in the face, and I'm missing it." He stared hard at Harry. "What have you seen? What have you seen that has forced you to grow up so quickly?"

Harry stayed silent. How did he explain this? Sherlock would never understand unless hegave away his biggest secret. Harry got up. "I'm not explaining this to you. I answered your questions. Stay out of my flat."

Sherlock didn't try to call him back.

XX

"Richie, I really shouldn't," Harry said as Richie pressed a second glass into his hands. The pounding late-night music was giving Harry a headache. Harry took a seat, the boys stumbling around him.

"But it's Josh's birthday! You gotta celebrate with us," Matt argued.

"I can celebrate just fine without the help of this," Harry said, gesturing to the beer in his hands.

"Come on, Harry!" Josh yelled over the music. "You'll offend me."

"If you don't drink that," Liam said, leaning in on Harry, cross-eyed. "Then I will."

Liam stumbled for a moment before falling over. He looked up at Harry confusedly from his spot on the ground. Harry rolled his eyes and stared into his glass.

"I'm going to regret this," he muttered before tipping back his head. The boys cheered their victory and hauled Harry off his seat. Onto the next bar, we go!

XX

"Sherlock, you've got to help me. You know I didn't do this!" Grayson implored to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't reply. He stood up and buttoned his jacket before leaving the room. Grayson called after him desperately.

"Are you absolutely sure he's guilty?" Lestrade asked once they were out of the room.

"Certain," Sherlock replied. They walked through the Police Station towward the main desk. "He's just playing Whipping Boy. He'll give up soon enough. Do you need me to prove it?"

"No," Lestrade said. "Gotta leave something for the paid detectives to do," he muttered.

They walked past the drunk tank, and Sherlock stopping short. He peered through the window, to see a young man with messy black hair and round glasses. He lay unconscious on the bench, sprawled on his back, drooling.

"Harry," Sherlock murmured.

"You know him?" asked Lestrade.

"He moved in to the flat upstairs about a month ago. I wonder what he's doing in the drunk tank."

Lestrade laughed. "The boys were telling me about it. They bought him in last night, afraid he might hurt himself."

"What was he doing?"

"Well, you know how there are happy drunks and sad drunks? He is most definitely a happy drunk. They're going to let him go as soon as he wakes up. The door's unlocked if you want to do the honours."

Lestrade walked off and Sherlock tried the door. Against his better judgement, Sherlock stepped into the room and approached the sleeping young man.

"Harry," Sherlock said

The boy didn't stir. Sherlock shook his shoulder gently. Harry scrunched up his face and pathetically tried to bat Sherlock away with his hand. Sherlock shook him harder.

"Harry, wake up."

Harry groaned pathetically and opened his eyes. He bought hands to his head, his face screwed up in agony.

"Come on, Harry, it's time to go."

Harry mumbled something incoherent and rolled over. Sherlock was beginning to wonder why he had even bothered. Sherlock grabbed Harry's collar with both hands and hauled him off the bench. Harry yelped, stumbled, and would have fallen over if Sherlock hadn't been there to steady him.

Harry stood for a moment, leaning heavily on Sherlock. He blinked. "Whadda you doing 'ere?" he said, slurring his words together.

"Coming to take you home."

Harry winced. "Don' talk so loud."

Sherlock had to practically drag Harry out of the Police Station and into a taxi. On the ride back to Baker Street, Harry began to become a little more alert.

"Looks like someone had himself a little too much fun last night." Sherlock said. Harry glared at him from his position across the car, leaning against the window with his knuckles supporting his head.

"Why... Who?" Harry started, apparently finding it difficult to piece together a simple sentence.

"The Police bought you in last night because they were worried you might hurt yourself," Sherlock explained. "What exactly were you doing last night?"

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I dunno," he said, knitting his eyebrows together. "I was with the gang, it was Josh's birthday or something. I had a few drinks, and then we - oh my god." Harry's face went pale and contorted into a look of pure horror. He covered his face with his hands and bent over in his seat, groaning.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Something embarrassing, I presume?"

"You have no idea," came Harry's muffled response.

Sherlock allowed Harry to wallow in self pity for the rest of the ride. The drove in silence until the turned onto Baker Street. Outside 221b were at least twenty men and women, all sporting photography cameras and notebooks.

"What in Merlin's-"

"The press," Sherlock said as the taxi came to a stop. "I've become somewhat of a celebrity as of late. You don't mind having a few photos snapped, do you, Harry?"

"Actually, I do mind-"

"Come on," Sherlock said, opening the door and getting out, forcing Harry to follow. The press was immediately on Sherlock, and Harry was able to slip through relatively unnoticed. The loud voices and flashing cameras made his head pound.

Harry tried to escape up the stairs to his flat, but Sherlock grabbed him and steered him into his flat. Harry wondered how he had gotten through the press so quickly, and wondered if he should ask him for tips.

"Can't you just leave me alone-"

"Do you want to get rid of that hangover or not?" Sherlock interrupted. He lead Harry into the living room and sat him down at the table before darting into the kitchen. He returned and set a glass of water in front of Harry. Harry stared at it.

"You call this a hangover cure?"

"There's no such thing as a hangover cure. That's the best you're going to get. Drink."

Harry pulled a face a took a sip. He glanced at Sherlock. "So, what do you want?" Sherlock stared at him, forcing Harry to explain himself "You dragged me in here, you obviously want something."

"I simply wanted to help you."

Harry shook his head. "No one helps someone unless they want something in return."

"That's awfully cynical of you," Sherlock said. Harry didn't reply, instead choosing to play with the glass of water in silence. "I wanted to help you. That is all."

"I don't need your help."

"Actually, you do, considering the fact that not an hour ago, you were locked in a drunk tank drooling on yourself."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Harry said, standing up so quickly that his chair toppled over. Sherlock stepped back in surprise. "Why can't you mind your own business? Is that really so hard for your brilliant mind to understand? I don't need your help!"

Harry turned and stormed out. Sherlock remained silent as he left. The boy was more damaged than he had originally thought.

 **Hi, thank you so much for reading this far. Don't forget to review, I'd love to know what you think.**


	4. M is for Moriarty

Chapter 4: M is for Moriarty, Bitch

Harry twirled a quill between his fingers and frowned at the parchment. It was completely blank except for the words _Parchment Pal_ at the top of the page in a fancy flowing script. Harry dipped his quill in the ink pot and began to write in his messy scribble.

 _ **Ginny? I have no idea how this thing is meant to work. I feel kind of stupid.**_

The words dissolved into the page, and Harry was starkly reminded of Tom Riddle's diary. Harry only had to wait a moment when more words materialised on the page.

 _ **Hi Harry! I have the exact same feeling. Doesn't this thing remind you of Tom Riddle's Diary? I didn't have the heart to tell George, he was so proud of his invention! How's exile going?**_

 _ **It's not exile. It's been good, though kind of boring. How's Annoying Brother No.6?**_

 _ **Ron? He's been great. His Auror's Apprenticeship has really taken off. He comes home every night practically dead on his feet.**_

 _ **I'm not sorry to miss out on that.**_

 _ **What, you're not going to be an Auror?**_

 _ **Maybe. I haven't quite decided yet.**_

 _ **Isn't that what this whole 'year living as a Muggle thing' is for?**_

 _ **Yes, but it takes time.**_

 _ **You haven't even started thinking about it, have you?**_

 _ **Not really.**_ Harry didn't need to be able to see Ginny to know that she was sighing in exasperation. **_Anyway, I have to go. I promised the boys I'd be there tonight._**

 _ **I really hate the fact that you're making friends without me, Harry.**_

 _ **Then why don't you join me?**_

 _ **We're not having this conversation again. Have fun with your deprivation of Butterbeer, appiration and Quidditch.**_

 _ **Stop being such a witch.**_

 _ **Stop being such a Muggle!**_

XX

"Damn it, Liam, I know you're cheating," Jayden said.

"What, because I'm winning?" Liam replied.

"You can't cheat in pool, mate, unless you pick up a ball and move it." said Josh.

"He's cheating. He's rubbish at pool - how can he possibly be beating me?" Jayden demanded.

"Ah, maybe because _you're_ rubbish as well?" Liam said. The boys erupted in laughter, the beer fuelling their sense of humour.

"Harry, why don't you have a game?" Josh asked. "Let's see if you're as bad as Jayden here."

Harry shook his head. "Trust me, I'm rubbish at being rubbish."

"Come on, Harry!" Matt nudged him.

"No way. After what happened on Josh's birthday, I'm never trusting any of you again."

The boys laughed. "That was one crazy night," Richie said.

"Yeah, for once Harry was the life of the party."

Harry went red, and the others laughed again, but their banter was interrupted when Sherlock Holmes walked up to their table. The boys fell silent and glared at Sherlock suspiciously.

"What do you want?" Richie demanded. Sherlock cast one critical eye over them before turning his gaze to Harry.

"A word, Mr Potter?" he said. Harry would never admit it, but he was more than slightly intimidated by this man.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" Harry replied.

"It will only take a moment."

Harry rotated his jaw in annoyance and stood.

"You know this joker?" Matt asked.

Harry smirked. "I'm afraid so."

Sherlock led him away to the bar and ordered two drinks.

"I'm not thirsty," Harry said.

"I know," Sherlock replied. "Just hold it. You'll look less suspicious."

Harry cocked an eyebrow, but accepted the glass. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I need to tell you that there's a very real possibility that your life is in danger."

What ever Harry had been expecting Sherlock to say, that was most definitely not it.

"Harry, there are four men stationed by each exit of this pub. They've been eyeing you suspiciously all night. Do you have any enemies I should know about, Harry?"

Harry didn't answer. He glanced at each exit. There was indeed a lone figure standing by each one. If Sherlock hadn't pointed them out, Harry wouldn't have given them a second glance.

"They don't have any weapons on them, but they know how to fight. Tell me why they're after you, or I might just go up and ask them myself."

"I honestly have no idea who they are or why they want me," Harry lied, he could think of a couple. "Are you sure they're after me?"

"Positive, though they have been behaving very strangely. As far as I can tell, they don't have any weapons on them."

Harry was surprised to hear that. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock studied the men. "I did see one of them fingering a little wooden stick, but I'm failing to see how that could be classified as a weapon."

Harry's heart plummeted. They were Death Eaters. They'd found him. How in Merlin's name had they found him?

"Now, since your 'busy', and 'don't need my help', I think I'll be off. Have fun with your little visitors. I'm sure you can look after yourself just fine without me," Sherlock got up and quickly strode away, his glass of beer untouched. Harry stared after him in disbelief. He was beginning to regret exploding in anger at the man.

"Prick," Harry muttered. He sat there a while longer, fingering his drink and wondering how he was going to get out of this one. Matt came up and sat behind him.

"You okay? You look like you've just been told you've got an hour left to live."

Harry smirked, he'd nearly hit the spot. "Nah, I'm fine. I better head off now. I've got – um. Stuff to do."

Matt gave him an odd look. "If you say so. Are you gonna be 'round tomorrow night?"

"We'll see," Harry said uncertainly. "I'll see you later."

Harry paid for the two drinks and left. To Harry's surprise, the Death Eaters let him leave the pub, their eyes trained on him as he passed.

On the street, Harry walked as quickly as he could. The Death Eaters had left the pub as well, and headed in his direction. Harry rounded a corner and broke into a sprint. He didn't stop.

Three blocks later, Harry cast a glance over his shoulder. He couldn't see anyone. He slowed to a brisk walk, breathing heavily. He moved his wand to his jacket sleeve and nervously glanced around the dark street.

Harry hated being chased. Sherlock was right. He knew what it was like to be hunted, to be constantly looking over your shoulder, always watching your back. The paranoia. The fear. Harry was all too familiar with the feeling. He tried to control his breathing.

Out of nowhere, a hand grabbed Harry from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth. Harry struggled against him. He felt a sharp pain in his neck. Harry panicked and tried to wriggle his way out the man's grasp, but he world quickly went black.

XX

Harry's eyes flashed open. He was bound to a chair, by his wrists and ankles, his hands tied behind his back. Harry blinked away the spots before his eyes. A gun was pressed against his neck.

He was in a dank room that smelled of rot. There were no windows, and only one heavy wooden door to his right.

Harry felt his heart beat hard in his chest. Why was he here? He had been kidnapped by Muggles. He didn't think he had any enemies outside the likes of Death Eaters and Dark Wizards.

As far as Harry could tell, the only person in the room was the man holding the gun to his neck. Harry twisted his head to look at the gunman. He was short, bald, and looked as though he was made purely of compacted muscle.

The door opened, and a man in a grey suit stepped into the room. He had dark hair and sported a wicked grin. The man walked slowly around Harry in a large circle, before stopping in front of him, hands in his pockets.

"Hello, Harry," he said. His voice was odd, as though he was talking through a mouthful of food. "The name's Moriarty. Nice to meet you." He looked Harry up and down, studying him.

"Do you know why you're here, Harry?" Harry remained silent as he glared at him. Moriarty seemed unaffected by the death stare. "No, I suppose not.

"You're here because of Sherlock Holmes. He's something of a nemesis of mine. I've been wanting to have a little chat with him for a very long time, and I think you'll be just the thing to help me out with that." Moriarty gave Harry a crooked grin as he produced a black phone from his pocket. He held it up in front of him and snapped a photo of Harry with an audible click. "He does seem to like his pets."

XX

Sherlock's phone lit up and began playing a tune. He didn't move.

"I'll get it, shall I?" John said irritably, getting up from his seat and picking up the phone. Sherlock returned his gaze to the street below. Harry had yet to return. "Sherlock." John passed the phone. Sherlock glanced at the screen, his heart plummeting.

He was looking at a photo of Harry. Bound to a chair, a gun to his throat.

 _Come and get your pet, the pound won't keep him for long. 109 Cuthbert St._

 _-JM_

"Let's go, now!" Sherlock said, grabbing his coat and running out the door. John following close behind. On the street, Sherlock hailed a taxi and the scrambled in. Sherlock gave the address to the cabby, urging him to hurry.

"Sherlock, didn't I tell you not to get involved," John said once the car was moving.

"Yes, John. I know."

"I told you not to go nosing about in other people's business, and now look what's happened."

"Yes, John. I know!"

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the armrest as he watching the houses slip by. He tried not to think about the fact that once again, people were in danger because of him.

XX

Moriarty clicked his tongue. Harry glared at him.

"He sure is taking his sweet time. Maybe he doesn't care about you after all," Moriarty said, grinning. Harry could feel his wand in his jacket sleeve. How he longed to curse this miserable little spider into oblivion.

"I can see why he likes you. You are very handsome, and that's me talking," he laughed childishly. "You are allowed to talk, you know. In fact, I rather it. I love hearing you hostages defend yourself, pleading for your life. Let's play a little game while we're waiting, shall we? Why don't you try and convince me not to put a bullet through your head?"

Moriarty walked right up to Harry and knelt down so that they were eye-level.

"Why should I spare you, Harry. What can you give me?"

"Nothing," Harry answered. "There's nothing I can give you."

Moriarty grined again. "Very good. You're smarter than you look. But there is one thing you can give me."

Out of no where, Moriarty raised his hand struck Harry full across the face. Harry blinked the spots away from his eyes, the side of his face stinging.

"Cry out, Harry. Cry out in pain for me, and I'll let you live."

Again and again, Moriarty delivered a blow to the side of Harry's head. Harry locked his jaw and bit his tongue to keep himself from crying out. He could taste blood.

Suddenly, the blows stopped coming and the door burst open. Harry blinked rapidly, his head spinning, to see Sherlock and John standing there, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock," Moriarty greeted them. "I see you bought your other pet along."

"Let Harry go," Sherlock demanded.

Moriarty laughed. "Isn't this adorable, how attached you are to your little friends. Didn't you know that the more you care, the more you have to loose?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock said.

"What do I want? I already told you what I want, remember? I want to burn the heart out of you."

"Yes, yes, I know that. What's this got to do with Harry?"

Moriarty grinned again, and ruffled Harry's hair. Harry clenched his jaw to stop himself from yelling ungodly profanities at the madman.

"I'm going to make an example of him, Sherlock. Don't you realise how powerful I am? I could kill everyone you ever met, but I won't. I'll just kill Harry here, so that I can show you what happens when you don't keep your nose out of my business, and I can show dear little innocent Harry what happens when you decide to be friends with Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty smirked. He then said in a singsong voice, "Don't make friends with Sherlock Holmes!"

Moriarty turned to gunman and nodded. Harry only had time to close his eyes.


	5. D is for Death Eater

Chapter 5: D is for Death Eaters

Moriarty turned to gunman and nodded. Harry only had time to close his eyes.

A deafening crash and a blinding light suddenly blasted the room as three men charged in, their wands raised.

Harry swore under his breath as the Death Eaters entered. They made quick work of the startled Muggles, casting full body-binding curses on them in quick succession. Sherlock, John, Moriarty and the Gunman toppled over, stiff as a board.

Yaxley, Avery and Lucius all turned their eyes to Harry, circling him. They grinned maliciously, savouring their prize.

"Harry Potter," Lucius said. Harry glared at him. "Long time no see, eh? Seems the Muggles have done all the hard work for us. Making friends everywhere, aren't we?"

Lucius raised his wand, smirking. "Crucio."

The pain ripped through Harry, setting his bones on fire. Harry clamped his mouth shut, loosing grip on reality. He only existed through the pain. Red-hot knives pierced every part of his body. He wanted it to end. He wanted to claw at his chest until his heart stopped.

And then the pain was gone, and he was back in the chair. He panted breathlessly. He didn't realise he had been screaming. Lucius stood over him in triumph. Yaxley and Avery were laughing.

"Did you really think you could escape us forever, Harry? I'll admit, it did take us longer than we expected to track you down." Lucius raised his wand again. "As much as I would like to make you pay for your crimes a little longer, I've been waiting for this moment for long enough. Any last words, Harry Potter? Statements of regret, perhaps?"

"Are you trying to make me apologise for killing Tom?"

Lucius pressed his lips together, eyes flashing. "Not at all, now that he's about to be avenged."

"So you're all that's left?" Harry taunted. "I suppose the rest are either rotting in Azkaban or have fled the country, no? It must be such a disappointment. You used to be unstoppable."

Lucius raised his wand in anger, but this time Harry was ready. Harry closed his eyes and focused on his magical core.

"You'll pay for it all, Harry. Avada Kedavra!"

Harry launched himself off the chair with a cry, just as the spell impacted with the chair. The binds around his wrists and ankles gave way, and Harry fell to the floor. Harry snatched up his wand and quickly ducked to avoid the onslaught of spells. Harry ducked and rolled as the three Death Eaters turned on him in anger. He struggled to return his own curses against the onslaught.

Harry cast an _Expulso_ at Avery, and was mildly surprised when it slammed into his chest, sending him flying into the opposite wall.

Harry was then forced to jump out of the way of Yaxley's Killing Curse, but he accidentally moved right in the path of another spell. A smoke-like cord wrapped itself tightly around Harry's wrist. Harry gasped in pain and tried to pry it off. The momentary distraction gave Yaxley a chance to cast a second cord.

Harry only had a moment to process what was happening, with two cords wrapped tightly around both of his wrists, before Lucius and Yaxley whipped their wands backward. The cords wrenched Harry off his feet and he suddenly found himself on all fours, out of breath, the ropes stinging his wrists.

"Give up, Harry," Lucius says. Anger built up inside Harry. Lucius and Yaxley went to wrench Harry across the room again, but this time Harry was ready. Harry wraped his hands around the cords painfully, getting a firm grip on them. He allowed his Wandless Magic to flood through his fingers, his magic fuelled by his anger.

The cords vanished into nothing. But Harry now no longer had a wand. Harry stood on his knees. Lucius and Yaxley stood over him, their wands pointed at his face.

"Get up," Lucius commanded. Harry got up, hands raised slightly in defeat. Lucius' face was set in grim determination.

A shot rang through the room. Lucius' eyes widened. He glanced at his shoulder as the blood was just beginning to seep through his clothing. He fell to the ground in pain, shock etched over his face. A second shot, and Avery fell, too.

Harry whipped around. John stood there, breathing heavily, a gun pointed directly at Harry's heart. Sherlock, Moriarty and the Gunman still lay cursed on the ground.

"What are you?" John said, his voice stuttering.

Harry raised his arms slowly. "I don't want to hurt you." John's hands were shaking. "I know this will sound idiotic at first, but I'm a wizard, and right now, I really need to deal with these two." Harry gestured to Malfoy and Avery, who were moaning on the ground.

"How do I know I can trust you?" John accused, stepping closer to Harry, his hand steadying.

Harry pointed to his wand. "A wizard is powerless without his wand. So long as I don't have it, I can't do anything to you. Take it."

John eyed the wand, then eyed Harry. He began walking in a wide circle around Harry until he reached the wand. Harry remained motionless as John picked up the stick and pocketed it.

"Who are they?" John demanded, gun still pointed at Harry.

"They're called Death Eaters. They're Dark Wizards – they make up a very small percentage of the Wizarding population. Take their wands, and they'll also be completely harmless."

John went over and cautiously snatched the wands from Lucius and Avery's hands, he then went over to Avery, who lay motionless against the wall, blood dribbling from a wound on the back of his head. Harry realised with a start that he was dead. That's how John had been released from the full body-bind.

"All right, what did these 'dark wizards' do to them?" John jutted his head in the direction of the three motionless Muggles.

"They're under a curse. I can undo it, but I need my wand."

John studied him suspiciously for a moment before chucking him a wand. Harry caught it. It wasn't his, but he made do. He wasn't sure how far John could be pushed. Harry pointed the wand at Sherlock and muttered the counter-curse.

Sherlock's limbs immediately relaxed. He immediately got up, looking bewildered. He ran a hand through his hair and spun around on his spot, gathering his bearings.

Harry turned his gaze to Moriarty. He lay on his back, eyes trained on Harry. Harry cast on obliviate, followed by a stupefy before muttering the counter-cure. He did the same to the Gunman.

"What are you doing?" John said, pointing the gun closer to Harry in panic. Harry immediately dropped the wand and stepped away.

"I removed their memories and knocked them out. It's for the best."

"Put the gun away, John, if he'd wanted to harm us he would have done it by now," Sherlock said. John hesitated for only a moment before stashing the gun away. Sherlock turned to Harry with a quizzical eye. "Now how about you tell us how in God's name you did that."

"I'd love to stay and chat but I really do need to take care of these two."

"What are you going to do to them?" John asked.

"I'm going to hand them over to the Aur- um, the Wizard Police. They'll get the medical attention they need there. Can I have my wand?"

"I gave you your wand," John said.

"No, you gave me _a_ wand. I need _my_ wand."

John took out the other three wands and handed them to Harry. Harry took his wand and stashed the other two away.

Harry turned on Lucius and nudged him with his foot. Lucius groaned and glared at Harry through his pain, clutching his shoulder.

"How did you find me, Lucius?" Harry asked. Lucius remained silent, so Harry gently pressed his foot over his injured shoulder. The Death Eater gasped in pain.

"How did you find me?" Harry said forcefully.

Lucius wheezed and smirked. "You really should have been more careful, Harry. You were on the front page of the Muggle paper a few days ago. Something to do with a detective who solved the mystery to four murders."

Harry glanced at Sherlock. Harry suddenly recalled the day Sherlock had taken him home from the Police Station. The press must have captured a shot of him without Harry realising. Harry could have kicked himself.

"Can you take care of those two?" Harry said, nodding at Moriarty and the Gunman.

"What do you suppose we do with them?"

"Whatever you want. They won't remember anything from the last twenty four hours. They should wake up in a couple of hours." Harry grabbed Lucius and Avery by the collar.

"Are you sure you don't need a hand with those two before -" John asked.

Harry grinned and appirated away.

XX

Harry landed in a small unused corner of the Auror's Office before stumbling. An Auror walked past and stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth falling open, eyes popping. With a start, Harry realised it was Ron.

"Harry?" Ron said. "What in the bloody hell -"

Harry wondered how he must look. He knew he must have a black eye and a few nasty wounds at the very least.

"Yes, yes I know. A little help?" Harry said. Ron rushed to Harry's aid. "Can you appirate me down to the holding cells?"

That was this thing about registered Aurors, who (unlike Harry) could appirate wherever they wanted within the Ministry. This was an extremely handy thing, since attacks weren't uncommon in the Ministry. It was much easier to have an Auror appirate to the location of the crime, rather than having him sprinting like a lunatic through the hallways to reach his desired destination.

The only place in the Ministry that could be freely appirated to was the spot Harry was standing on, and only a select few new about that.

Ron took Harry's shoulder and with a pop, he suddenly found himself in the dank hallways of the prison cells. Harry unceremoniously dumped his two prisoners in the cell and locked the door behind him.

"Well, so much for a quiet year living with the Muggles, eh?"

Harry leaned against the wall and gave Ron a pained expression. "You have no idea," he said tiredly.

"Come on, you gotta fill out the files for them two. You look pretty cutup for duelling just two Death Eaters. Hell, you had less injuries when you offed Voldy."

"Yes, well, let's see how you fare against three blood-thirsty Death Eaters when you're chained to a chair after being kidnapped by a homicidal maniac."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "You were chained to a chair by – You know what, no. I don't want to know. Not yet, anyway. Should I be calling a healer, you like you've been through hell and back."

"I'm fine," Harry said quickly. "Where are these forms at? I still have a few things I need to sort out."


	6. A Mystery Worth Solving

Prologue: A Mystery Worth Solving

Harry opened the door to his quiet apartment, dragging his feet behind him. He relished the thought of falling into bed.

Harry flicked on the lights and nearly jumped out of his skin. Sherlock and John sat on his couch. Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

"Couldn't we at least wait until morning -"

"No," Sherlock said. "Sit."

Harry rubbed his eyes and sat on the chair opposite the two men. "Okay, what do you want to know first."

Harry waited for the onslaught of questions, but it never came. Harry glanced at Sherlock, who was once again studying him. There was a prolonged moment of silence.

"Well, first of all, I want to thank you, on behalf of John and I, for saving our lives. Secondly, I want to thank you for your assistance with Moriarty. We decided to leave him and his companion as they were. And finally, I was wondering if you might teach me some of that magic you and those 'Death Eaters' were flinging around the room.

"But we won't talk about that tonight. You look dead on your feet. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

Sherlock and John stood, and Harry stood up with them.

"Um, before you go. You have to swear to me that you won't tell anyone about me," Harry said. "I just spent the last hour and a half filing applications to allow you two to keep your memories. We value our secrecy above almost all else. You can't tell anyone, or they'll do to you what I did to Moriarty.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrows, forever studying Harry. "Your secret is safe with us."

With that, Sherlock strolled out of the room, John following behind. Just before they left, Harry could have sworn he heard Sherlock say, "See, John, didn't I tell you he was interesting?"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John replied.

The man rubbed his eyes and leaned forward in his chair. He propped his head on his knuckles. The broken man stayed that way for a long time.

He was disturbed, however, by the cheery tune of _Stayin' Alive_ , by the _Bee Gees_. He sighed, and reached into his grey suit pocket to pull out a black phone. He tapped the screen and bought it to his ear.

"What?" he demanded.

"Sir, what's taking so long? How did it go?"

Moriarty rubbed the bridge of his nose, and tried once again to delve into the memories that no longer existed. "How did what go?"

The man on the other side of the phone paused. "You planned to kidnap Harry Potter last night. Is something the matter?"

Moriarty stared at the opposite wall. Why couldn't he remember anything that had happened the night before? He remembered planning to kidnap Sherlock's little pet, and setting the plan in motion. But what had happened after that?

"No," Moriarty replied. "Look, I'll call you back later, I'm a little busy at the moment," he paused for a second. "You know what, just cancel everything. Cancel everything and I'll deal with it later."

Moriarty hung up promptly and took a deep breath. He began to wonder if he was going mad, but quickly dismissed it – He already was mad.

Moriarty turned on his phone and bought up his messages.

 _Come get your pet, the pound won't hold him for long. 109 Cuthbert S._

 _-JM_

With it, was a photo of that boy, Harry Potter, bound to the chair in the room he had intended to use. The message had been sent last night.

He had done it. He had kidnapped Harry and blackmailed Sherlock into meeting with him. Why couldn't he remember anything? Something had happened that night. Something big, and it had something to do with that boy.

Pure anger filled Moriarty as he stared at the photo of Harry. This boy had done something to him. Made him look like a fool. He was going to get to the bottom of this. He was going to extract his revenge on Harry Potter, and it all started with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
